


Touch of a Vanished Hand

by DestielsDestiny



Category: The Hunt for Red October (1990)
Genre: Character Study, Chronic Pain, Comforting Mancuso, Comforting Ramius, Descripion of past accident, Fluff, Gen, Gen or Pre-Slash, Jack Ryan is very huggable, Jack's POV, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Missing Scene, Past Canonical Character Injury, People keep giving Jack their coats, Pre-Poly, Sharing Clothes, Well captains do anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:28:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28147611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DestielsDestiny/pseuds/DestielsDestiny
Summary: The one where Jack is cold, and Sub Commanders have warm clothing readily to hand.
Relationships: Bart Mancuso/Jack Ryan, Bart Mancuso/Marko Ramius/Jack Ryan, Jack Ryan & Bart Mancuso, Marko Ramius & Jack Ryan, Marko Ramius/Jack Ryan
Comments: 5
Kudos: 31
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Touch of a Vanished Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [simplecoffee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/simplecoffee/gifts).



> The title is from Tennyson's elegy, "Break, Break, Break."

Jack is cold.

It starts as it always does, a creeping tendril of ice twining about his neck, settling over his shoulders, shooting down his spine, until the numbness gives way to an agony that grits his teeth together until they creak.

It had been a clean landing, as good as any that could be hoped to be had, from a controlled fall into the North Atlantic from far too far above the recommended height for _any_ dive. Any _fall._ He’d sliced the water with barely a splash, his arms crossed, head tucked down, feet together.

His academy instructor would have been proud.

_Had_ been proud. When the chopper went down.

The lieutenant had been closest to Jack, had hit the water barely a meter away. They’d both entered cleanly, barely a splash, arms crossed, heads tucked down, feet together. He’d grinned at Jack, the flash of bright eyes and white teeth barely visible in the vortex of wind and rain.

They’d been barely an arm’s length apart. Barely.

Jack remembers the bubble of insane relief, giddy and pounding in his chest, the laugh of disbelief that had bubbled past the frigid water that was already turning his lips blue.

The chopper hit the water mere seconds after they did. Milliseconds. Jack’s never read the after-accident report to find out the specifics.

Two different commanding officers offered to let him read it. One of them ordered him to read it.

But he doesn’t need to have read it to know that when the fuselage hit the water, it damn near crushed his spine.

And he doesn’t need to have read it to know that after the fuselage hit the water, he was the only survivor.

“Ryan.” It’s not a question, not a shout, not a command even. But it slices through the cold gripping Jack, through the numbness and the pain, catching his attention and holding it.

Jack’s first thought upon seeing the man, somewhere between blinking salt out of his eyes and retching up what felt like half the Atlantic ocean, was that if he bumped into Bart Mancuso in the street, he’s positive he would forget the encounter almost instantly.

Unassuming, was the world that came to mind.

But put the man underwater, and his words seem to electrify the very air about them.

His every movement economical, his every action deliberate yet daring. His gaze mesmerizing.

Captain Bart Mancuso was, in a word, unforgettable.

Jack hasn’t spent enough time around sub commanders to know if that magnetic quality is a requirement of the job or not. His pool of experience is limited to all of two, after all.

It could just be a coincidence that both those two men fit that criteria perfectly.

Eyes that should be as cold as the sea all about them are startlingly warm in the red-tinged lighting of the Ops center. “You doing okay over there?”

Jack blinked back into focus, the warmth of that gaze, that voice curling about the ice freezing him to the decking.

That’s been a fraught question for Jack to answer since his third year at the Academy, one he’s gotten adept at lying in response to. He’s good at providing the only answer anyone who ever asks it is interested in hearing.

Damned good.

Somehow, in the strength of that gaze, all of that melts away like a spring thaw.

“I’m a little c-cold, Sir.”

A spike of fire coursed up his neck, spiking across his jaw and locking his teeth together with an audible clack.

Jack suspected— _knew_ —that if the Ops table wasn’t propping him up, his legs would have long since ceased to hold him.

Mancuso didn’t shift his gaze, nor his expression, which could have been concern as much as it could have been exasperation, as much as it could have been anything.

Jack suspects the captain was one _hell_ of a poker player.

And as much as Jack isn’t half bad at the game himself, he _knows_ that all of his tells—and his cards—are on full display as Mancuso shifts around the table with deliberate, economical swiftness, a heavy weight settling about Jack’s shoulders, bringing with it a warmth just this side of infernal.

A hand—dexterous, firm, yet strangely gentle—settled at the joint between Jack’s shoulder and neck, pulling the insulated material carefully about his shivering form.

“First rule of submarining, Ryan.” Jack realized belated that Mancuso’s eyes weren’t sea grey at all, but a deep brown, the brown of dry leaves on a cold winter day, the brown of hot chocolate curling with steam and heat and warmth. “Know when to ask for a helping hand.”

Jack swallowed past the lump in his throat, the catch in his breathing having—for once—nothing to do with pain.

“I’ll remember that, Sir.” A blink, a nod, a look of what might have been satisfaction as much as it might have been disinterest.

“See that you do.” And the moment was over as quickly as it had come.

But as they got back to the business of preventing World War Three, Jack couldn’t help but shift closer into the warmth wrapped about him.

He wasn’t shivering anymore.

***

“Here, Ryan.” The jacket was heavier this time, the lining thicker yet rougher. The movements were gruffer too, less fluid grace than raw power. Jack reflected distantly that that might have something to do with the bullet wound to the shoulder.

Eyes as blue-grey as the sea, yet as bright and burning as vodka set alight. Jack blinked.

“I’m a little cold, Sir.” The words were thick and clumsy on his tongue. Reactor fluid lay sticky and wet on his hands. Jack wondered belatedly if perhaps someone should check if he was radioactive.

Marko Ramius must _also_ be one _hell_ of a poker player, because Jack could not read his expression at all.

It looked rather like amusement to him, mixed with not a small amount of affection.

The man and his motives had made more sense several hundred miles apart than they did a few inches away. Or perhaps, and Jack was forced to admit this was a _distinct_ possibility, Jack was just very, very tired.

His tone, on the other hand, was as clear as it was warm and deep. “The shivering rather gave that away I’m afraid, Ryan.” Jack reached a shaky hand up to pull the warmth closer to himself, and ended up snugged against the captain’s good side.

Apparently Ramius’ one working arm had still been attached to the jacket he’d draped about Jack’s shaking frame.

Through the open portal of the cabin, Mancuso’s measured tones issued reassuring sounding commands.

Jack’s legs folded at the knee, but the shivering agony that ripped through him—as it was wont to do at such a movement—was smothered in the warmth of Captain Ramius’ frame.

“I’m afraid I’m about to fall asleep on you, Sir.” Ramius had a deep chuckle, one that made his entire chest rumble with the force of its warmth. A hand—large, rough, warm—tugged him closer with infinite gentleness.

The words that chased Jack down to rest were tinged with as much sadness and remembrance as they were warmth and amusement.

“The first rule of submarining, Ryan.”

Jack’s smile was hidden by the jacket collar.

He suspected that submarine commanders were rapidly becoming his favourite type of person.

Mind you, he’d only ever met two of them.

But as he drifted off, Ramius’ breath hot against his ear, Mancuso’s voice echoing from the depths of the sea, Jack Ryan felt confident in the assertion that two were more than enough to know in his heart, as well as in his head, that all of this had been worth it.

Worth all of it.


End file.
